After Mandela

After Mandela

The other land, do I imagine it or remember?
Its outline is misty in today’s autumn fog,
a dull day in England, and you see yourself
on the way to the airport, small baggage in hand.
When the plane lifts off, the gone-by days dissolve
like the summer rains in Africa.

You get nearer to the people you love, their faces
still hidden in the depth of your eyes.
A man in the seat next to you talks of Mandela.
“After his death” he says, “the prophecy will come true,
Slaughter of all whites within seven weeks.”

You fly across a country that looks like the number seven.
Algeria, Mali, Nigeria. Ocean and night fuse
in utter blackness. Sleep. Dreams of uprising,
rage, mayhem.
Glaring light wakes you. A clatter of cups and plates.
Coffe is served to pasty faces. You wriggle your toes,
look for your lost shoes under your seat.
When the plane touches down: the rise of a blood red sun.
A flock of hadedas flying up noisily. You wait
for your eyes to focus.